


Equanimity

by 5Runner5



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightingale deals with his feelings, Sort Of, Spoilers for Lies Sleeping, Toby helps, Very brief cameo from Beverley Brook
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 21:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18536014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5Runner5/pseuds/5Runner5
Summary: Tonight, Thomas feels that just over the horizon of his mind there are some very dark places.





	Equanimity

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Lies Sleeping. Some super indulgent angst (and a tiny amount of comfort) about how Nightingale deals with Peter's disappearance, because I have far too many unresolved feelings about it all. Also, Toby! There can never be enough Toby.

It is the fifth day, and Peter is still missing, and Thomas has barely slept since his disappearance.

He’s got some sleeping pills stashed away still, from his convalescence after the Covent Garden incident, but he’s afraid to take them now. Afraid that he’ll be needed in the middle of the night and be unable to properly wake, his consciousness smothered, because a common theme in Peter’s misadventures is that Thomas is too late.

There’s a dull pain throbbing behind his right eye. It’s worse the more he moves around. He rolls his shoulders and head, trying to crack some of the stiffness out of his neck, but he can’t get any relief from it.

He regrets that he shouted, actually shouted in Alexander Seawoll’s face today. All these years and he has never let Alexander provoke him, never descended – but it was what Abdul called chandelier pain, a tiny thing to set you off because the accumulation of everything was too much and you just couldn’t bear another ounce of pressure.

Even harder to take than Alexander’s criticisms of _the way you manage your unit, if you call this managing_ are the people who are being careful and kind around him. Sahra has been particularly solicitous, offering cups of tea and encouraging comments, and he appreciates it, he really does, but it was beyond him this evening to see her dark eyes full of sympathy and pretend he isn’t wound so tightly that he feels he might snap at any moment. And so, he has retreated to the coach house to use the computer to get some work done, but also to get away from her, and the analysts and all the sundry other officers who could now be found at the Folly at all hours.

In the coach house, evidence of Beverly Brook is scattered everywhere, from the air mattress piled haphazardly with pillows and linen to what looks like three weeks’ worth of clothes covering most of the floor. Beverley herself is absent, having gone out a few hours ago to meet some contacts in Barnes. No doubt some unfortunate soul was currently having a very unpleasant time of it. She’d be back late, she’d said, but she would have her phone on in case of any news. Thomas has left her belongings alone, found a path to the computer desk through clear patches of carpet.

He’s finished updating the case files now, and clicks through to watch the CCTV of Peter getting into the fake car again. There is nothing new to see, nothing more to be gleaned, and he wants to scream in frustration, wants to hit something, break something. He resists the impulse. It would not make him feel any better, he knows.

Thomas has seen horrors in his long lifetime, and retains the memories of them still; sometimes they recede peacefully to the back of his mind for years at a time. At other, less happy, times he dreams of them, stuck in that strange state halfway between consciousness and sleep. Sometimes he wakes from a deep sleep in a panic, feeling hot and sick and soaked in sweat, but unable to recall why.

Tonight, he can feel that just over the horizon in his mind are some very dark places, suggestions of awful possibilities about what might have befallen Peter, because he wasn’t there, couldn’t protect him, is always too late – stop. Breathe. Breathe. These thoughts are not useful.

He shuts down the computer and stands. The main overhead light is off, and he clicks off the lamp on the desk as well, leaving just the reading light on the table next to the sofa dimly illuminating the room. Everything hurts, days of tension and little sleep making what feels like every muscle stiff and sore. Knowing that Peter keeps such things there, in the cabinet he finds some ibuprofen, and swallows two with some water from a bottle in the fridge.

With a grimace he rubs at the back of his neck with both hands, and chastises himself: how else would he bloody well expect to feel if he barely sleeps for days on end. He needs to be fit for duty – if he is needed, it is likely to be without notice – and he knows from long experience that adrenaline will only take him so far. If only he could get a grip on himself tonight.

The shadows in his mind are looming large now. He is responsible for this; Peter has been taken on his watch. He let Lesley down, failed to save her from a nightmare he’d never even seen coming, and now he has failed Peter too.

Peter, who he’d dared to have such hopes for, brilliant, inquisitive Peter who couldn’t rest until he knew the _why_ of everything. Thomas had, foolishly, started to plan for a future which wasn’t just himself alone anymore.

The thought of starting again with a new apprentice after all these years, after losing Lesley and now Peter, feels crushing. It’s hard to breathe around the weight of it in his chest. He pushes it away, pinches the bridge of his nose, counts the breaths in and out. These thoughts are not useful.

He startles a little at a noise outside. A skittering, tapping noise which he recognises; it’s Toby running up the stairs which lead to the coach house door. The little terrier is scratching and whining at the door, and Thomas opens it to let him in. Outside, the yard is dark and wet, a cool rain falling. Toby trots in and does a few laps of the room, sniffing into the corners, whining miserably the whole time.

Thomas closes the door and sinks down onto the sofa. His head is pounding in time with his heartbeat. “Come here, boy,” he says, and Toby obediently pads over, pushing his nose into Thomas’s outstretched hands. “He’s not here,” says Thomas. “I’m sorry.” Toby looks up at him, his eyes huge and sad. Thomas pats the sofa beside him. “Come on,” he says, and Toby jumps up, his collar with its metal nametag making a tuneless little jingle.

On the sofa, Toby turns himself around a couple of times and then lies down with his head in Thomas’s lap. Thomas strokes his fingers through the soft hair on Toby’s head, scratches him gently behind his ears. “He’s coming back, though,” he whispers. “Do you hear? He hasn’t left you. He hasn’t left. We’re going to find him, and he’ll be home.”

The dog closes his eyes, whines against Thomas’s legs. Thomas sighs. Peter speaks to the creature as if he can understand English, but it’s an absurd notion, really. He carries on stroking Toby’s fur anyway, and feels his heartbeat start to slow down, the pounding less hard against his throat and in his chest and head. Toby has nothing to say in response, but mute company suits Thomas just now.

Thomas’s eyes itch with fatigue. He angles his wrist to see his watch; it’s nearly midnight. He desperately wants to sleep, but the thought of going to his room now, getting up and crossing the yard in the cold rain and then quite possibly lying restless and aching in his bed for hours is not an enticing one. It’s not awful on the couch house sofa though, with the dog a warm, reassuring weight on his lap, smelling faintly of the lavender soap Molly scrubs him with. He’ll just stay here for a few minutes, to comfort the dog.

(Thomas had never thought of himself as a dog sort of person. When Toby had first arrived on the scene, he’d only acquiesced to him staying in the Folly as he might have been important to the Punch case. And then after the case, having seen that Molly liked him so much, he hadn’t had the heart to insist on getting rid of him. Over the intervening years, he has found himself becoming very fond of the little creature himself. He does not admit this aloud to anyone, least of all Peter.)

He doesn’t intend to stay, not wishing to intrude upon Beverley when she returns, but fatigue drags at him and in spite of himself he leans over to untie his shoes with one hand. Kicking them off, he swings his legs up onto the sofa, shifts round so he can lean back against the arm. Toby snorts a little but stays mostly where he is, pushing his face into Thomas’s body.

“Shh,” he tells Toby, “it’s alright. It’s alright.” After a few minutes he gently nudges Toby over a little, so he can lie on his side along the back of the sofa, one arm bent under his head, while the dog curls up on the cushion in front of him. His free hand returns to smoothing along the fur on Toby’s back. His neck hurts less in this position, and while he lies still the pain in his head recedes as well.

It’s easier for the sharp points of his attention to glance off of his own worries while he makes hushing noises to soothe Toby. After a while, the little dog goes to sleep, every so often giving a little snuffling sound. Thomas’s eyes close of their own volition. At the edge of his hearing, he can just about make out the sound of rain pattering on the coach house roof, and he tries to focus on it, lets the white noise fill his mind up as he counts breaths in and out. His thoughts become blurry, slow, and he drifts.

Hours later, Thomas wakes to a grey dawn. The lamp is off. There’s a blanket draped over him and Beverley is curled up under the duvet on the air mattress, only the top of her head showing, dark against the white duvet. Thomas feels a twinge of embarrassment at being caught here by her, but pushes the feeling away as not useful. Presumably if Beverley had been very unhappy, he would have had rather a ruder awakening. He carefully extricates himself from the blanket without disturbing Toby, picks up his shoes and steps silently over to the door. He lets himself out as quietly as he can, and sits on the top step to put his shoes on.

He leans back against the door, breathing in the cool air. The morning is still and overcast, threatening more rain later. He tips his head back to look up at the sky; listens to the low rumble of traffic noise and birdsong from Russell Square. His eyes feel gritty, but he’s surprised to find everything else feels less stiff and sore this morning.

The shadows are grey shapes at the edges of his mind. Thomas heads off across the yard to his own room without looking in their direction. Perhaps he can catch a couple more hours of sleep before breakfast.


End file.
